


And That Would Be Enough

by ORiley42



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Flirting, Happy Ending, M/M, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, foggy is concerned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-29
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-05 05:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6690784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ORiley42/pseuds/ORiley42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt and Frank banter, are assholes, and do inappropriate things on rooftops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And That Would Be Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, firstly, I'm so pleased that "Twisted and Fluffy Feelings" is a canonical tag - what a time to be alive.
> 
> Secondly, this is my first time writing for this pairing! And both characters are so complex and nuanced! And if I write Frank for too long he starts to speak like Wolverine for reasons unknown to me! Ahh! 
> 
> ALSO for ~reasons~ I'm pretending that Frank doesn't know Matt outside of being Daredevil. 
> 
> Hope y'all love these trashy babes as much as I do!
> 
> PS - here's the Matt/Frank playlist I made while writing the fic, if you'd care to join me in my angsty feelings: https://play.spotify.com/user/1256310210/playlist/6L5l8kvnHGQUr5mik5nSyW
> 
> PPS - the title is inspired by "That Would Be Enough" from Hamilton

_Thwick!_ went the dampened blast of a sniper rifle, and a bullet went whizzing past Matt’s ear to lodge in the shoulder of the baseball-bat-wielding thug who’d been sneaking up behind him. The thug Matt had _totally_ heard coming and was _totally_ about to take care of, once he’d finished with the meatbag who reeked of tuna fish that he’d been dealing with. Matt knocked Tuna Fish Guy to the ground with a swift crack on the jaw, pausing for a moment to make sure none of the other half dozen gang members he’d been interrogating on the whereabouts of their new port for importing drugs sounded like they were gonna be getting up anytime soon, before hooking his grappler onto the fire escape and swinging up to the rooftop where Frank was waiting.

Frank was lounging comfortably against the grimy brick, his rifle tucked casually in the crook of his arm as he sucked down the last of the coffee in his thermos.

“ _What_ was _that_ ,” Matt growled, crossing his arms to keep himself from ripping the rifle out of Frank’s hands and throwing it over the edge of the roof, because that would just be childish. And ineffective, since Frank had at least six other firearms on his person.

“Hello to you too, Red,” Frank replied, unbothered, screwing the cap back on his empty thermos and tossing it into a duffel with an ominous sort of metallic clank.

“Hi. Why did you just shoot my suspect?”

“Wow, gratitude ain’t in your dictionary, is it?”

“No, but _beatdown_ is,” Matt retorted, tilting his head so the eyes of his mask glowed crimson in the dark in a way that Foggy had once described as “pretty demonic and horrifying.”

Frank laughed aloud and Matt was annoyed for the millionth time that he apparently didn’t scare Frank even a little bit.

“No need to get your spandex in a knot, altar boy, I was doing you a _favor_. And look! He isn’t even dead, since I figured you might need to pound some more info outta him. You’re _welcome_.”

“Oh, a _favor_ ,” Matt sighed, in the most put-upon manner he could muster. "You’re right, I’m so _sorry_. How could I ever thank you?"

“Well…” Frank drawled, and Matt could feel his gaze rake up his body, focused on him properly for the first time that night. “Given that you’re Catholic and all, I don’t think the kind of _thanks_ I’m thinking of would go over too well.”

Matt knew, logically, that the temperature on that roof hadn’t just ratcheted up a notch, but he also knew that Frank wasn’t entirely joking with that entendre-laden statement.

So, in a move he mentally categorized under “Just Teasing” and not “Terrible Frank-Related Decisions,” he sidled closer, swiping the bag of weapons out of his way with a swift kick as he moved to position himself just inside of Frank’s personal space. He didn’t say a word, just let his breath ghost across the air between them, and was instantly gratified when Frank’s heartrate ramped up tellingly.

“ _Red_ …” Frank growled in a low voice that was probably meant to be threatening, but held a distinct note of something _else_.

Matt shifted till he was close enough to nearly brush his lips against the shell of Frank’s ear.

"In. Your. _Dreams._ ” Matt stated clearly, before back-flipping neatly off the roof with a shit-eating grin.

“Son of a…” Frank’s frustrated snarl filtered down to where Matt was leaping off the fire escape, feeling lighter than he had in a long time.

This night was proving to be much more interesting than he’d expected.

~~~~~

“No,” Matt grabbed Frank’s wrist where his hand had reached up to paw at Matt’s mask.

Things had (unsurprisingly, if Matt was being honest with himself) come to a head between them when they met again a week later in the warehouse district, both chasing separate leads that led to the same group of human traffickers. There was some of Matt’s usual “no killing” shouting, and then some of Frank’s usual killing, and then more shouting from both parties, with a brief interlude to tie up all the criminals in the warehouse. And now they were up on a filthy rooftop together, minus certain key elements of their respective costumes and both quite keen on venting their frustrations with each other in a whole new way.

“The mask stays on,” Matt insisted in a tone he hoped brooked no argument (though, ‘no argument’ with Frank – that was a laugh). But Frank didn’t push it, just shrugged and made a vague noise of acquiescence.

“Now, for once in your life,” Matt settled himself more comfortably where he was straddling Frank’s hips, “why don't you put those big strong hands to good use.”

~~~~~

Matt was well aware that he should be alarmed at, well, _everything_ about Frank, but he couldn't suppress a shiver of excitement when he caught his scent on the wind, or picked out the steady bass of his heartbeat among the shivering cacophony of the city. He tried not to think about it, but since that had worked for him approximately never, he subsequently tried to rationalize it away into something more manageable than “you’re banging the Punisher, and you _like it_ , you twisted son of a bitch.”

He'd always been attracted to danger after all, that was nothing new, and Frank was dangerous in so many senses of the word. But this was _okay_ , this would be _fine_ , because there were no feelings to complicate matters. And sure, Frank was still killing people (Matt valiantly ignored how little that really bothered him most days), but at least with Matt around, the body count was smaller and more targeted to a specific population of spectacularly evil scumbags.

And being around Frank felt like being absolved, sometimes, like Frank had reached over and hauled the weight of guilt off of Matt’s shoulders and onto his own, with nothing but gruff stoicism and no expectation of thanks.

Well shit, Matt lamented to himself as he perched between the gargoyles of an old stone church, half-way listening for the sounds of crime and half-way listening for the sound of one particular trigger being pulled. What did it say about him that he had to be in the company of a serial killer to feel like he wasn’t being judged?

~~~~~

The next time happened only a day after the last, and the time after that they stayed sprawled under the stars on a roof just north of where the offices of Nelson & Murdock had been, lying in companionable silence as time stretched on around them.

The spell was broken when Matt heard the cry of a young girl and the _shrrk_ of a switchblade, and he bolted upright, grabbing his billy clubs as he did up the fastenings on his suit. He dived off the roof without a word, because no words were needed, but a few moments later he heard Frank murmur lightly, “see ya around, Red,” and for the first time it just sounded like a promise, not a threat.

About a month after whatever they had between them started, Frank gripped the span of Matt’s helmet in both hands and growled, “This ridiculous piece of shit comes off or I _walk_.”

That threat shouldn’t have bothered Matt at all; he should have said “fine” and let Frank walk away and out of his life. In fact, it _didn’t_ bother him, but in the wrong way – it felt like an opportunity, like Frank was helping to tear down a wall Matt wasn’t strong enough to demolish himself.

So, he found himself nodding easily, feeling pleased at Frank's satisfied grunt as he none too gently tore the helmet off, and even more gratified when Frank's heart rate subsequently spiked as Matt's features came into focus.

"Like what you see?" Matt teased, fully aware that he looked like absolute hell at the moment, complete with a new little rivulet of blood making its way down from his hairline now that the pressure of the mask was gone.

"You've got a pretty face, Red. I wasn’t really expecting it.” Frank reached out to thumb away the trickle of blood, the motion softer than any of his previous touches had been, almost alien in its gentleness. “This bullshit mask of yours messes it up, though.”

Matt grinned. _There_ was the Frank he was used to.

“You should kill your tailor,” Frank continued, tossing the offending mask aside carelessly.

“No, I shouldn’t.”

“Do you want me to kill your tailor for you?”

“No, I don’t! He’s a good guy, and he does his best.” Matt pursed his features in what was definitely not a pout. “Besides, the mask isn’t _bullshit_ , it’s _scary_.”

“Aw, I hurt your feelings, princess?”

“Shut _up_ ,” was Matt’s witty response, followed by a swipe at the side of Frank’s head. The slick sound of lips pulling over teeth into a harsh smile was all the warning Matt had before Frank was tackling him to the ground, the rough gravel of the rooftop irritating Matt’s back even through the armor of the suit.

“Think I’d rather make _you_ shut up, Red.” Frank’s smirk was almost audible as Matt worked to try and twist himself free, but Frank’s grip on Matt’s wrists was strong and, if Matt was being honest, he wasn’t really trying all that hard to get loose.  

“I’d like to see you try,” Matt panted, fairly excited at the prospect of just that.

But then Frank hmmed, and his countenance became suddenly, oddly thoughtful.

“You know, your eyes are a kinda nice color. All green ‘n brown ‘n shit. But they’re…” Frank tilted his head from his vantage point above Matt, “…not working right.”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed indifferently, “They kind of don’t work at all.”

“Huh.” Frank seemed to chew on that for a minute. “So you can't see?”

“Nope.”

“Anything?”

“Not a thing.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Frank grumbled, pressing his hips down meaningfully against Matt’s, "So are we gonna fuck or what?" And the matter was dropped. 

~~~~

It was almost a month after he'd let Frank see his face that Matt decided to tell him his name.

They’d just finished taking down the leader of the human trafficking ring that they’d both started investigating weeks ago, and Frank had only put up a token fight when Matt argued that the man should live long enough to be arrested, which Matt knew was only because the man was an escaped felon from death row whose life was already over, but still. He’d take the victory. And it _was_ a victory, with the leader left in chains (minus a few teeth and about a pint of blood), his goons scattered in varying states of agony and unconsciousness throughout the warehouse, and at least a dozen girls and women freed from a wretched cage and a hideous future.

They barely made it to an acceptable rooftop (deserted, badly lit, and well outside the police perimeter of whatever crime scene they’d just evacuated) before Frank was clawing at the many complicated clasps keeping Matt’s costume together, starting up his usual muttering about “why can’t you just wear some goddamn normal clothes like a goddamn normal person,” to which Matt responded, “says the guy wearing a skull _spray-painted_ on his shirt, what is this, arts and crafts?” and then Matt was riding Frank hard and fast, which was, he’d learned, the best way to end all of their arguments.

Sated for the time being, they sprawled against the ledge of the roof, too comfortable to be more than halfway back into their clothes.  Matt was feeling loose and something suspiciously like content, and as close to a mood for honesty as he was ever going to get.

“Matt,” he stated clearly and without any preamble, tilting his head to approximate looking Frank in the eye.

“What?”

“My name. It’s Matt.”

“Really?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“Huh. It just seems so….normal. Boring.”

Matt rolled his eyes. Typical. Even his _name_ wasn’t up to snuff. “What did you expect?”

“I dunno, something like…” Matt hears the breath of a laugh catch in Frank’s throat, “something like _Damien_.”

“Oh my god –”

“– or, or Lucifer –”

“– For fuck’s sake, my parents weren’t gonna name me _Lucifer_ , they were Catholic.”

“Gee, no kidding?”

Matt threw one of his gloves at Frank’s face. “You’re one to talk _Frank_ , your name sounds like you should be starring in a sitcom, complete with a cheesy theme song and canned laughter.”

“ _Me_? Well, _Matt_ sounds like a name for some white collar shithead who spends his days sittin’ on his ass, tricking grannies out of their pensions or some bullshit.”

“I, uh, I’m a lawyer actually,” Matt admitted, propping himself up on his elbows.

“You’re shitting me.”

“I am not.”

“Jesus. And being a vigilante, running around beating people up at night in a dumb costume, that doesn’t bother your legal ethics or whatever?”

Matt leaned his head back, enjoying the night breeze playing across his skin as he reflected on how to answer. “I can… live with the contradictions.”

“Yeah. You do seem to be good at that.”

There was something strange in Frank’s tone that Matt couldn’t decipher, but he got the feeling they weren’t just talking about his profession anymore.

Matt was distracted from his thoughts when the breeze shifted to catch the putrid stink of a dumpster the next block over and assault his nose with the smell of rotting meat and sundry decomposing vegetables.

“You know, Frank, we could be wild sometime and not fuck on a disgusting rooftop.”

“Hey now, it ain’t that bad.”

“Oh, it _is_ , trust me.”

“Pussy.”

“Numbskull.”

“Fine, maybe next time we’ll go to a _fancy_ roof. Do it on top of a shiny high rise, that make ya happy?”

Matt groaned and whacked Frank’s bicep, while telling himself that it was good the conversation had veered out of his control, because he’d been about to voice his completely _crazy_ idea to invite the _Punisher_ over to his apartment. That would be the worst idea in a truly diverse and extensive history of bad ideas.

“Or…” Frank paused, and Matt picked up the slightest stutter in his heartbeat. “We could go back to one of my places. They ain’t palaces but a few of ‘em ‘ve got beds.”

“ _Frank_.” Matt threw a hand over his heart, “Are you offering to take me to one of your little rat-infested hidey-holes? I had no idea you were such a _romantic_.”

“Jesus _Christ_ you’re unbearable. I take it back!” Frank made to stand, but Matt pulled him back down easily, grinning with the knowledge that Frank was, at the moment, all bark and no bite.

“No, Frank, really. I’d be _honored_ to screw around on one of your mattresses, in some dank concrete bunker somewhere.”

“Why do you think all my places are so shitty?”

“Are you really gonna tell me they’re not?”

“They’re _practical_. They’re a place to store ammo and recharge, not, not… _luxuriate_.”

“Whoa, Frank, that was an _awfully_ big word you used just there, do you need a moment to catch your breath after the effort?”

“Fuck you,” Frank grumbled, rising to his feet and tugging the rest of his clothes back on.

“Sure!” Matt rejoined cheerfully, “On a _bed_.” He leapt up after Frank, pulling on the rest of his own outfit before following him down the fire escape.

They meandered quietly through a labyrinth of alleys, before Matt finally piped up, “So, where are we going?”

“ _I_ am going to one of my _rat-infested hidey-holes_. What makes you think _you’re_ invited?”

“The fact that you invited me.”

“You really are a lawyer, aren’t you, with that smart talk.”  

“I am. The best lawyer, you know, when I’m not showing up to court on an hour of sleep and nursing three broken ribs, or stalking my clients when they leave my office. But,” Matt couldn’t stop a sigh from escaping as he contemplated the increasingly thin moral line he constantly tiptoed along, “I do my best.”

“Christ. Lawyer by day, superhero by night - I should be calling you Saint Matthew. Where’d you even get the whole ‘devil’ thing?”

Matt let his lips split into a sharp grin, the kind with too much teeth and that didn’t go anywhere near his eyes. “Let’s get to this place of yours and I’ll show you.”

To Matt’s surprise and consternation, Frank burst out laughing at that. “Shit, Red. That was a _terrible_ line.”

“Well, if you don’t like it, maybe I _will_ just go…” Matt huffed, making as if to move away.

“Oh, relax, Hornhead, we’re already here.” Matt caught the movement of Frank gesturing grandly to…a rusted door set in a crumbing wall of concrete, which did little to hold back a strong scent of gun oil and – yep, rat droppings. His lips twisted into a little moue of distaste as Frank pulled a key from his bag and neatly clicked open the thick iron lock. The smell did _not_ improve when Frank swung the door open, and Matt considered jumping ship, suggesting they go back to their usual rooftop rendezvous, but something stopped him – a feeling that Frank might be trying to reciprocate in his own way for Matt’s earlier honesty. A feeling that maybe Frank showing _him_ , someone who’d had Frank _arrested for murder_ not too long ago, one of his safe houses actually meant something…serious. Not that what they had was _serious_ , of course, or that Matt would ever let it get _really_ serious but…

“You comin’?” Frank’s gruff voice echoed out of the doorway.

Matt hesitated for a beat, before stepping cautiously inside. “Yeah. But next time…” Matt took a deep breath, and then grabbed hold of all of his common sense and threw it firmly to the wind, “next time we go to my place.”

~~~~~

Next time actually ended up being on yet another rooftop because, surprise, they weren’t the most patient men in all of Hell’s Kitchen. But the next night the streets were quiet, calm enough that even Daredevil and the Punisher could pack it in early.

When Matt dragged Frank onto the roof of his building, Frank snorted and elbowed him in the ribs. “You’ve been screwing with me this whole time, haven’t you? You’re not some fancy lawyer, you’re just a crazy homeless guy who lives on roofs. What’s the matter, you only get hot when you’re ten stories up?”

Matt elbowed him back. “It’s called _rooftop access_ , dumbass. I can’t exactly go through the front door like this, much less walk the _Punisher_ through the lobby.”

Frank shrugged noncommittally. “I dunno, I think we should do that someday, just walk down the street in plain daylight, complete with my guns and your dumb costume,” he turned to leer at Matt, the expression tinged with the usual levels of instability, “it’d be fun.”

“Your idea of fun and mine are very, _very_ different,” Matt sniffed, marching past him to the door.

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Red,” Frank swatted Matt’s ass, catching him off guard as he was focused jimmying the lock, “I think you ‘n I like the pretty much the same kind of fun.”

“ _You_ –” Matt huffed, unable to complete whatever he’d been about to say since Frank crushed their mouths together and barreled them both through the barely-unlocked door with a resounding crash (luckily, Matt’s neighbors had grown used to odd noises emanating from his apartment in the middle of the night).

When they reached the top of the stairs leading down into the living room of Matt’s apartment, however, Frank froze, eyes flickering over the space below.

“So this is…your real place?” he muttered, disbelieving, “You brought me to where you _actually_ live?”

“Yup,” Matt shrugged, the gesture more nonchalant than he actually felt. “Guess I’m just a trusting person.”

“You’re an _idiot_ , actually.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

Frank scoffed and stomped down the stairs into the apartment proper. He stood in the middle of the living room, contemplating the furniture, the minimal décor, and the massive, glowing, behemoth of a sign outside, bathing them both in purple light as Matt skipped down the stairs to stand beside him.

“Well, this confirms something I’ve thought about you ever since I saw that Halloween get-up of yours…” Frank turned to glare at Matt, “your taste is horseshit.”

Matt straightened up defensively for a moment, before bursting into uncontrollable laughter, barely managing to choke out, “for…fuck’s sake, Frank…I’m _blind_ you piece of shit!” He tried to shove Frank, who neatly sidestepped him.

“That’s no excuse, Red. Honestly, this place stinks. Where the hell do you get off raggin’ on my safe houses when you live in this dump?”

“It’s not a dump!”

“Jesus, the rent better be gutter-low….”

“It’s not! Because my _home_ isn’t a _dump_!” Matt crossed his arms and huffed, before he paused and listened more carefully to the signals coming off of Frank’s body.

“You…” his head tilted to the side as he realized, “You’re just messing with me.”

“Nah, I think it’s a total dive, an absolute hellhole.”

Lie. “You fucker. You _like_ this place.”

“‘Like’ is definitely too strong a word…”

“You’re just trying to rile me up!” Matt cut off any possible response by grabbing hold of Frank’s jaw and slamming their mouths together and grinding his hips up against Frank’s.

“Well...it worked didn’t it,” Frank panted against Matt’s lips as his hands slid down to grab handfuls of Matt’s ass, pressing them tighter together.

Matt couldn’t disagree, because it was _definitely_ working, and so decided he’d have to take out his frustration in a different way. In bed. At least twice. And so he dragged Frank away from the florescent glare coming in the window and into the sheets.

~~~~~

Matt awoke the next morning to a pleasant soreness, sheets that smelled like explosives and musk, and the crackle of eggs in a frying pan. He dragged himself upright, stretching hugely and wincing at the answering cracks and pops throughout his body.

“Mornin’ sunshine,” Frank called from the kitchen.

“Morning,” Matt called back, a second before the complete and total surrealness of the situation dawned on him. Frank? Was still here? And in the _kitchen_?

Matt threw the covers off and reached into the pile of clothes next to his bed to search for his pants – a task made harder by how much his and Frank’s scents had mingled.

Matt stumbled into the kitchen where his senses confirmed that yes, indeed, Frank was most definitely _here_ and _cooking_.

“You’re…” Matt almost said ‘still here,’ but thought better of it, opting instead for: “…making breakfast?”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Frank grumbled as he switched off the stove, moving to pull a pair of plates out of the cupboard, “I’m a fuckin’ grown man, I know how to scramble some damn eggs.” Frank emphasized his last words by dumping said eggs onto the plates and tossing one down in front of Matt.

“Sure, but…” Matt scratched his head, sitting down at the counter and sniffing at the proffered breakfast, “I didn’t think you’d actually _do_ it. As a kindness. To another human being.”

“I’m not a _complete_ asshole, Red.”

“Yeah you are,” Matt countered, his tone more fond than was probably appropriate to the situation.

“Yeah,” Frank chuckled, pleased, “I am.”

They ate in companionable silence for a while (the eggs were actually good, _really_ good, Matt was pleasantly surprised to discover), before Frank flicked on the police scanner sitting at the end of the counter. Matt hadn’t even bothered to hide it away lately, given that Frank was the first visitor he’d had in weeks.

As Matt was rinsing the plates something came over the scanner that made Frank’s adrenaline spike. Matt tuned back into the feed in time to catch something about a B&E on the West Side, suspected to be related to the Dogs of Hell (whose ranks had been sorely depleted, courtesy of Frank, but not entirely destroyed).

By the time Matt had set the plates down and dried his hands, Frank was already in his gear and heading towards the stairs to the roof.

“Well, I have to go to work,” Matt gestured vaguely at his front door, “and you have to…” he waved at the stairs.

“Go and do what I do,” Frank finished the sentence gruffly.

“Whatever that is.”

“Right.”

Frank was almost out the door when Matt’s resolve broke and he asked, “So, I’ll see you tonight?”

Frank just grunted, the noise not clearly affirmative or negative.

Matt sighed, and it came out a far more affectionate sound than he would have liked.

This was just crazy. Frank Castle making breakfast in his kitchen? Matt just letting the Punisher go on his merry way, more than that, actually _helping_ him with increasing frequency? How could he keep living his life this way?

Matt’s heart clenched painfully as he thought that, if they were still talking, Foggy would tell him he was insane for letting this go on.

~~~~~

“You're _insane_! What are you _thinking_?” Foggy virtually explodes when Matt finally gets up the nerve to tell him. 

He and Matt had managed to start their process of reconciliation about a month prior, not long after Frank spent his first night at Matt’s. Matt hadn’t been able to stand the empty silence where Foggy’s heartbeat was supposed to be, and so he’d showed up on Foggy’s doorstep with a shy smile and an over-priced cheesecake from the expensive shop down the road that Foggy adored, but could never afford. Foggy had sighed, closed his eyes, and then stepped back to let Matt in. A few drinks, a few hours, a lot of tears, and most of the cheesecake later, the two had agreed that neither of them were better off without the other.

A few weeks later found Matt dropping onto Foggy’s fire escape looking like a drowned kitten, having decided to make good use of his utterly pitiful appearance after getting thrown in the harbor by some drug runners, and maybe earn some sympathy points as he finally admitted the truth about him and Frank.

Foggy was giving him absolutely _no_ sympathy points as he threw a towel at Matt’s face while not missing a beat of his “The Punisher is Evil and You are Even Dumber Than I Thought” diatribe.

“Of all the stupid, horrible, _ridiculous_ things, Matt! Did you get a concussion and lose your mind when he _shot you in the face_ , perhaps? Or maybe you went a little funny in the head after he nearly _blew you up_ at the docks? And this isn’t even touching the issue of him being a convicted serial killer!” Foggy threw himself down into a cushy armchair, flinging his hands over his face. “Matt, how is _none of this_ giving you any pause?”

“Foggy, it _is_. You think I haven’t already gone over all of this in my head? It’s _me_ , remember, I’m the heavyweight champ of regret and guilt.”

“You know what else you’re the champ of? Diving headfirst into situations without thinking! And then, narrowly avoiding getting your dumb head lopped off, only by sheer dumb luck. And your luck’s gonna run out one day, pal, and I get the feeling that day’s coming soon. And that it’ll arrive in the company of _Frank fucking Castle_.”

“Foggy, I…” Matt hung his head. Of course there was no excuse for his behavior, for the way he was not only taking no action to bring a convicted murderer to justice, but for how he was actively helping him, how he was… _caring_ for him. It was sick, but it didn’t feel that way when he was with Frank, it just felt…easy. It just _worked_.

“Matty.” Foggy’s gentle tone had Matt’s head popping back up, hope blooming in his chest at the affectionate nickname. “There’s so, so, _so_ much wrong with this whole thing, but like you said, I’m sure you’ve already gone over all that. Weighed the moral pros and cons, thought about what this means for you as a lawyer and a vigilante and a…a hero. Cause you _are_ , Matt, you’re a hero, and I’m your _friend_ , and the thing that really worries me – the _only_ thing that really matters to me – is you. How can _you_ be alright being with someone like him?”

“I…” Matt wasn’t sure he could explain it, not in a way that wouldn’t just horrify Foggy more, but he owed him at least his best effort in trying to. “It is very, very complicated…”

“Stop the presses,” Foggy sighed, leaning back in his chair, “Matt Murdock’s life is complicated.”

“It’s _complicated_ ,” Matt forged on, “but Frank, he…defines me. He is what I’m not and…being with him is the closest thing to peace I feel outside of punching someone. Which, I know, it’s terrible. It’s the devil in me, rearing his head and looking for blood but…it’s part of who I am. I mean, you think I _chose_ this? You think I _like_ the fact that I associate the slide of a .380 being pulled back with feeling safe?”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Foggy swore vehemently.

“We don’t…” Matt thought back to that long night on that hot roof, that first real conversation (what he’d once jokingly told Frank was their first date). “We don’t get to pick the things that fix us. That make us whole.”

Foggy was silent for a moment, his thoughts swirling almost palpably in the air.

“Does he make you feel that way? Whole?” Foggy finally asked, his voice tentative, quiet, and heartbreakingly earnest.

“Yes,” Matt answered, grateful that he could do so honestly. “And before you say anything about what it means for me to feel whole when I’m with the goddamn _Punisher_ , please remember that I really have already told myself that and much worse.”

“But Matt…” There was a soft rush of air as Foggy shook his head with a sigh. “The crux of the matter isn’t whether you’re a bad person for wanting this – which I am _not_ saying, by the way – it’s that…” Foggy’s warm hand reached out to squeeze Matt’s icy fingers, “You deserve better, Matty.”

“Maybe,” Matt yielded, more to avoid a fight than because he really believed it. “But it is what it is and it’s…enough.”

There was a beat of tense silence, and then Foggy sighed and patted his hand, before continuing in a matter-of-fact tone, “then I expect you to tell your Mr. Punisher that if he ever hurts you I will be forced to kill him according to the rules of Best Friendship, and that’s not an idle threat.”

Matt broke into just slightly hysterical laughter at that, and leaned against Foggy’s shoulder, and was just so damn _glad_ , because Frank wasn’t the only thing Matt needed to feel whole.

~~~~~

Frank stayed. Not all the time, but more and more frequently. They didn’t talk about it, didn’t address the way that Frank’s clothes had started to migrate into Matt’s closet, and the way that Frank showed up with bags of groceries and then rearranged Matt’s cupboards because they, in his words, didn’t make any goddamn sense. Matt drew the line at Frank stockpiling weapons there, however, a lesson Frank learned the hard way when Matt threw a case of grenades he tried to sneak in out the window and neatly into the back of a passing dump truck.

There were nights that Frank disappeared without a sound, and Matt ordered takeout and actually caught up on work (because “yes, Frank, I have a real job, that generates real income, that I can then use to buy real food and shelter”) and then shivered in bed, because it was just so _cold_ now. But there were also nights where Frank followed Matt home silently, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world, and didn’t say a word when Matt pulled one of Frank’s arms around his waist and settled with his back to his chest and slept a glorious, dreamless sleep.

Tonight was one of those nights, where Frank’s heavy footsteps followed Matt’s down the stairs into his living room after a night of tearing apart a drug den that had sprung up north of 51st street, that they suspected was linked to the Mexican cartel. Matt grabbed his (increasingly well-stocked, considering his nighttime activities and recent bedfellow) first aid kit and plopped down next to where Frank had collapsed on the couch.

“Those were some real nasty fuckers out there tonight,” Frank grumbled, grabbing a cotton swab and lifting his shirt to mop up the smear of blood leaking from the cut on his abdomen that Matt had sutured shut the night before.

“I agree,” Matt replied, running fingers over his own cuts and bruises to confirm that none of them required any immediate attention, “considering you stink of your own blood almost as much as theirs.”

“Yeah, well, those junkies played dirty. One of them fuckin’ _bit me_ , can you believe that?” Frank lifted his hand to exhibit said bite, and Matt gently took it, inspecting the damage with light touches. “Look, you can actually _see_ the damn teeth marks.”

“Funny, I can’t see them,” Matt quipped as he dumped a generous amount of alcohol over the broken skin.

Frank hissed at the sting before replying, “ha ha, the Devil’s a comedian now.”

“One of my many talents, along with playing nursemaid.”

Frank snorted and let Matt wrap a bandage around his palm before standing brusquely and shoving at Matt’s shoulder with his good hand.

 “You, go and clean up,” he ordered, “you still smell like that dumpster they threw you in.”

“They did _not_ throw me in it. I just… ended up there…”

“Yeah, whatever you say, Red. I’ll get dinner going.” Frank waved a hand in Matt’s direction as he went and started pulling ingredients out of the fridge. “God knows _you_ can’t cook for shit, which is fucking hilarious considering you’re the one with the super senses that can tell you if a tomato’s _unhappy_ or some bullshit…”

Matt shook his head and left Frank to his grumbling and his cooking, stripping off his uniform and stepping gratefully under the hot spray. He was so enveloped in the relief of scrubbing off hours of grunge and other people’s bodily fluids that it took him way too long to notice a familiar thump coming from his front door, followed by the scratch of a key in a lock.

Wait, was that… _Foggy’s_ heartbeat? Was that…Foggy using his spare key to _open the door to Matt’s apartment_?

Shit. Matt fumbled the water off and nearly nosedived out of the shower in his hurry to head off the extinction-level disaster-in-the-making that was brewing outside.

He’d barely thrown a towel around his waist when he burst out of the bathroom door, reaching out with his senses to see where Foggy was, where _Frank_ was –

“Uh, hi? Matt?” Foggy’s words were questioning, with an edge of gentle amusement. He was standing in the middle of Matt’s living room, sounding perfectly at ease, and not at all like he was standing mere feet away from a convicted serial killer.

“Foggy. Hi.” Matt managed to reply, as he realized that although Frank’s heartbeat – slightly elevated, but not truly alarmed – was still coming from the general area of the kitchen, he must have ducked out of Foggy’s line of sight. Matt sent up a vigorous thanks to God for that small mercy, and to Frank, for playing along and not, well, shooting Foggy full of holes on instinct for the unexpected intrusion.

“You okay, buddy? You look a little freaked.”

“Me?” Matt squeaked, then winced. “Freaked? What? No. Just. You’re here! And I was. Not expecting you.”

“Right…”

“So, maybe you could…go?”

“Sure, in a minute – _after_ you tell me what’s up.” Foggy planted his feet, and Matt recognized the signs of some patented Nelson seriousness coming his way.

“ _Nothing’s_ up!” he insisted, cringing slightly as he heard his own voice delivering that line in the least convincing tone possible.

“Matt. You are acting _super_ cagey. Wait…” Foggy’s heartrate spiked as, Matt imagined, it occurred to him what might be the impetus behind Matt’s strange behavior.

“Are you…not alone?” Foggy’s eyebrows flew up to his hairline as the implications of that theory occurred to him.

At that moment, Frank popped up from behind the kitchen counter like some kind of demented jack-in-the-box. A demented jack-in-the-box with a loaded handgun jammed in his waistband, and whose hands were twitching anxiously towards said handgun. Foggy caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and jumped an impressive distance into the air, almost letting out a scream but clapping his hands over his mouth at the last moment.

There was a breathless silence in the room for a moment, before Frank opened his mouth, hesitated, and then grunted, “Hey.”

“Hey,” Foggy answered a little too quickly, his voice residing about an octave higher than usual. “You. Are. You’re the Puni- uh, Frank. You must be Frank.”

“The one and only. And you are?”

“Uh. Foggy. I’m Foggy, at least, that’s what my friends call me, my real name’s Franklin, but yeah, I am, basically, Foggy.”

“Right.” Frank’s tone sounded more skeptical than annoyed, and a brief flicker of hope that this night wouldn’t end in property damage and tears burst to life in Matt’s chest.

“Hey,” Frank snapped his fingers and Foggy twitched in fright. “You’re the friend Matt told me about, the one who’s gonna bury me if I ever hurt him, right?” Frank looked clearly amused by the idea, and Foggy looked objectively terrified. Matt knew he had to intervene, _now_ , but before he could come up with a plan, Foggy was squaring his shoulders and lifting his head up high.

“Yes, I _am_ that friend,” he declared, his voice strong, if still a little high-pitched. “And I’ll reiterate that promise now, if that’s what it takes to get it into your thick skull. I will fucking _end you_ if you hurt him, and don’t think I’m kidding, because I am _100% deadly serious_.”

And he _was_ , Matt was flat-out stunned to know. Foggy was telling the gospel truth, and Matt was stuck between a still-mounting feeling of horror, and a new wave of compassion for his best friend, who was once again proving himself to be just too damn good for Matt.

He was shocked out of his emotional paralysis by the jarring sound of Frank…laughing. _Heartily_.

“Christ, the _balls_ on you.” Frank moved closer to Foggy, much to Foggy’s clear dismay, continuing, “I can see now why Matt likes you so much.” Frank gave Foggy’s back a friendly slap and Matt grimaced, because even Frank’s friendly slaps packed a real punch. Foggy made a little squeaking noise, and Matt finally managed to pull himself together enough to dive forward and wedge himself between Frank and Foggy.

“Well, now that you’ve all been introduced, you should probably go, Foggy…”

Foggy seemed perfectly fine with that plan, but Frank shook his head and admonished, “don’t be such an asshole, Red, the man just got here. And I’ve got enough spaghetti cooking for three.” He turned his glare back to Foggy, who very bravely didn’t run away immediately. “You’re staying for dinner,” Frank declared, and then marched back to the stove, the decision made.

“ _Matt_ ,” Foggy hissed directly into Matt’s ear, making him wince. “Did you just get me lassoed into having _dinner_ with the _Punisher_?”

“Uh…no? Maybe?”

“Weak response, counselor.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, Frank is actually a hell of a cook.”

“That…doesn’t make me feel any better. It just freaks me out even more, actually.”

Matt’s shoulders sagged a little. “Well, if you really want to go…”

“I do, actually, really want to go. And possibly hide under my bed. For the rest of eternity. But…” Matt perked up as Foggy trailed off. “But, I won’t. Because it is my solemn duty as your best friend to size up your significant others and then pass judgment on them, and I’m not one for shirking my duty.”

And with that, Foggy turned on his heel and headed towards Frank, calling out, “I hear you’re not bad in the kitchen.” He went to lean against the counter, putting on a very convincing appearance of cool ease. “But I, myself, am capable of making up to three different kinds of meals, and only two of them are pasta-based, so I have very exacting standards.”

Frank laughed again, volleying back, “then prepare to have your standards blown away, lawyer man.”

Matt began to relax fractionally as he stood listening to Foggy and Frank trade banter in his kitchen. Frank actually seemed to be having something approximating a good time, (a miracle in and of itself), Foggy’s heartrate was starting to slow to close-to-normal levels, and best of all, there had been only minimal threats of violence. All in all, the whole situation was turning out far better than Matt could have imagined.

After another minute of gauging the situation to ensure that he could safely leave Foggy and Frank to their own devices for a brief period, Matt ducked into his room to drag on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt, before rejoining the unlikely pair in the kitchen.

And in the end, the dinner _wasn’t_ a train wreck, to Matt’s great surprise (and relief). Frank’s food was delicious, and Matt should have realized that that would be the way to Foggy’s good graces.

The meal started out painfully awkward, at least for Matt and Foggy – Frank seemed fairly at ease as he dished out heaping portions of spaghetti and sauce onto everyone’s plate.

As he threw the ladle back in the pot and reached for a fork, the bandage on his hand slipped down to reveal…

“Is that a _bite mark_?” Foggy choked out, his head tilted to get a better angle on the contusion on Frank’s palm.

“Oh yeah…” Frank glanced at the wound disinterestedly, “the junkies we busted tonight got a little frisky.”

“Ah,” was all Foggy had to say to that.

“I didn’t think they were all that difficult to handle,” Matt added innocently. “You must be gettin’ slow in your old age, Frank.”

“Watch it, dumpster boy,” Frank stabbed his fork in Matt’s direction, making Foggy’s jump in his chair and Matt’s grin widen.

“Jesus,” Foggy muttered, shaking his head, “you two really are a pair aren’t you.” Matt felt a sharp pang of guilt at those words before he noted the small smile playing around Foggy’s lips, and realized that his tone hadn’t been particularly condemning, more…resigned.

“I guess I should just be glad you have someone out there watching your back,” Foggy continued, giving Matt’s wrist an absent pat.

“Hey, I can watch my _own_ back just fine,” Matt protested.

“Ha! Right,” Frank leaned in conspiratorially towards Foggy. “Did you think I was kidding about the dumpster thing, cause I wasn’t. This dumbass literally got tossed in with the fucking trash, had the lid slammed on top of him ‘n everything – I had to fish him back outta that shit!”

“That is categorically _false_ –”

“You are categorically a _pussy_ –”

The bickering continued, and Matt thought he detected a note of amusement in his best friend’s tone as he neatly avoided taking sides.

By the time the bottom of the pot had been scraped clean, everyone was relatively calm (relative definitely being the key term), and no one had threatened anyone else with arrest or dismemberment, so Matt was personally considering it a stunning victory.

He walked Foggy to the door as Frank started the dishes, and Foggy spent the whole walk through the living room gaping openly at the sight of the Punisher up to his elbows in soap suds.

“He’s just cleaning up,” Matt sighed as they rounded the corner into the entry hall, “it’s not that weird.”

“Matt. _Buddy_.” Foggy took Matt’s shoulders in his hands. “This whole thing was way past weird as soon as _Frank Castle_ entered the picture. But even ignoring that, it’s the _middle of the night_. Most people are asleep, not doing dishes with their murderous boyfriends. I just stopped by to make sure your corpse wasn’t rotting in a back alley somewhere, and then…well. 2 am dinner happened. Who needs sleep, really? Clearly not you two, and apparently not me.”

Matt winced. “Sorry for messing up your night, buddy, I didn’t mean…”

“I know you didn’t. And, I _was_ curious – and also halfway convinced your guy was gonna shoot me if I turned down his invitation – so…”

“I really am sorry, Foggy, for…well, _everything_.”

“To be fair, “everything” isn’t all your fault. Just some of it.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

The two shared a soft laugh as Foggy reached to open the door.

“You know…” he began, one foot already stepping outside, “It kind of worries me to say this but…I think you seemed, maybe, actually…happy? So…that’s good. Keep it up.” Foggy let his words rest in the air between them for a moment, before he nodded once and walked away, Matt calling after him with a growing grin, “I’ll do my best.”

Matt clicked the door shut, a small smile still tugging at the corner of his lips as he headed back to the kitchen.

“So,” Frank grumbled as he scrubbed at a particularly resilient spot of tomato sauce, “your friend good ‘n scared of me?”

“Nah, I actually think he’s starting to like…”

Frank turned to stare at Matt, disbelief clear on his face.

“…. _tolerate_ you,” Matt amended. Frank made a noncommittal sort of harrumph and turned his attention back to the dishes.

“Really, though,” Matt continued, feeling his pulse quicken anxiously as he chose his next words carefully, “thank you for tonight. It was…nice.” He stilled, waiting for a response, but he needn’t have been worried.

“Don’t get all sweet on me now, Red,” Frank teased, throwing Matt’s words from long ago back at him.

“Hey, _I’m_ not the one who’s being all _domestic_ …”

“You little shit…” Frank splashed Matt with a faceful of warm, soapy water, making him recoil with an indignant squawk, but not stopping him from continuing his ribbing, “you’re a regular Martha Stewart!”

Frank growled ominously, tossing down the last of the dishes and reaching out to grab Matt’s waist in an iron grip, slamming him roughly against the wall and crushing their mouths together. His dishwater-wet hands slipped up under Matt’s shirt as Matt clawed at his shoulders and spread his legs wider to let Frank jam his thigh between them.

“ _That_ feel like Martha fuckin’ Stewart to you?” Frank rumbled against Matt’s jaw.

“Can’t…can’t say it does,” Matt panted, “but, I wouldn’t really know, would I? I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Ms. Stewart.”

“ _You_ …” Frank snarled and squeezed Matt’s waist so tightly it would certainly leave some lovely bruises, “you’re gonna be a goddamn smartass till the day you die, aren’t you?”

“That’s the plan,” Matt gasped out cheerfully.

“Fuckin’ lunatic…” Frank mumbled, but leaned down to bite at the juncture of Matt’s neck and shoulder.

Matt tilted his head back to allow better access to that tender expanse of skin and reflected that, all in all, it really had been a very good night.

~~~~~

Matt should have known that a run of luck as good as he’d been having couldn’t last. Less than twelve hours after Foggy met Frank and Matt started to feel like maybe the puzzle pieces of his life actually came from the same box and had some hope of fitting together, a crackle of words over the police scanner threw a wrench in the works.

Frank’s spine straightened and he bolted up from the chair where he’d been assembling and reassembling an assault rifle (an act he apparently found quite calming), snatching up his jacket and dragging it onto his shoulders.

“What is it?” Matt asked, his fingers stilling over the braille depositions he’d been scanning for the last hour.

“Nothin’,” Frank grunted, heading for the stairs.

Matt stood, scoffing, “Don’t bullshit me, Frank, you know it doesn’t work.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot for a second that you’re a freak.”

“Insults won’t distract me either, that’s the lawyer part.” Matt planted his feet and crossed his arms, “Now, tell me what’s up.”

Frank froze on the first step up to the roof access door, and Matt felt him waver, torn. Finally, he set his foot back on the ground of Matt’s apartment.

“It’s what I’ve been waiting for, that’s what’s up. The last shitty remains of the Dogs of Hell, Kitchen Irish, and Mexican Cartel. Cops spotted a bunch of ‘em, and I know what they’re up to – they’re comin’ together, tonight, for a meeting, all in one place – and I’m gonna make ‘em regret it.”

“Or, more likely, you’ll be shot up six ways to Sunday. Isn’t it just a _little_ convenient that they’re all neatly rounded up into one place? Doesn’t that sound like, I don’t know, a _trap_?”

“Definitely. After all, I heard that the meeting is on how to deal with me. And you,” Frank amended reluctantly.

Matt paused, digesting that information. There were a lot of problems with the whole situation, from the idiocy of walking into what Frank knew was a trap (which Matt couldn’t really argue with because well, kettle, _black_ ) to the fact that this was the first Matt had heard about this supposed unite-against-the-vigilantes meeting, and weren’t he and Frank supposed to be a team, at least of sorts?

He finally settled on just nodding, and stating, “Alright. I’ll get ready and go with you.”

“No, Red, you can’t. There’s gonna be killing tonight, a lot of it. By me. So you can’t be there.”

“Why? Like you’ve never killed people around me before?”

“Yeah, and then you try and stop me –”

“ – I haven’t _had_ to, lately –”

“ – well this night is different. These are the last pieces of shit left over from the fuckers that killed me family –”

“ – I know, Frank –”

“ – you _don’t_ know, and you _can’t_ be there because you’ll just get in my way, or worse, you’ll get in _their_ way and then it’ll be that goddamn day in the park all over again!”

Matt reared back, feeling like he’d just stumbled up to the edge of a cliff he hadn’t even known was there.  
  
“Then….” Matt sucked in a breath, grasping for the courage to ask what he was burning to ask, “you could stay. Here.”

A laugh burst out of Frank and Matt could taste its bitterness in the air, and he already knew that he was fighting a losing battle, but…

“You could just let it go, and _stay_.” Why couldn’t Frank stay, couldn’t it be enough, couldn’t…couldn’t _he_ be enough?

“Yeah, no fucking way,” Frank replied carelessly.

“Then at least –”

“No, Red, if you’re gonna climb onto your soapbox again then I’m –”

“No, no, that’s _not_ what this is about. I want to be honest with you, so I’m not gonna say that I’m fine with you pumping people full of lead –”

“– here we go –”

“– but, the thing that I _really_ want is to not wake up one morning to a news report that they found _your_ body riddled with bullets.”

Silence was always deafening for Matt, since it was never truly quiet, but this silence was…heavy. Dangerous. The calm before the storm.

Frank’s low growl tore through the quiet, “Isn’t that a little rich, coming from you?”

“Absolutely. But I’m still going to ask it of you: please, if you have to go, then just…don’t die.”

“Well, it’s not like I’m _trying_ to kick the bucket.”

“No?” Matt bit out the syllable, simultaneously regretting it and feeling wondrously vindicated at finally putting out in the open what he’d been thinking for so long.

“ _No_!” Frank stalked across the room in a violent burst of motion, grabbing handfuls of Matt’s shirt and hauling him in close. “Is that what you think? That I’m out there, every night, waving my ass in front of a bunch of shitbags with guns so that I can punch my ticket early, get outta this hellhole, _run away_? You think I’m that kind of a _coward_?”

“Of _course not_ , Frank. You’re crazy as _fuck_ , but if there’s one thing you’re not, it’s a coward.”

“If I’m so goddamn crazy why the hell do you wanna keep me around?”

“Because, against _all_ of my better judgment, _I care about you_ , Frank!”

“Aw, Jesus,” Frank scoffed, his grip on Matt loosening, but Matt grabbed both of his hands and held them tight to his chest.

“And because you’re _me_ if I stepped over that edge. And this is _not_ me trying to say I’m better than you, hell, if anything, you’ve been better adjusted this last year than I’ve ever been.”

“Yeah, that’s because I embraced the empty, Matt. _You_ shouldn’t do that. You _can’t_.”

“But I _could_. I don’t want to but… God, _you’re_ the one… _you_ keep me away from that edge, Frank.”

“ _How_?” Frank laughed and the sound was savage and bitter, sticking to Matt’s skin, burning it. “How could _I_ keep you away from that edge when I’m the one who keeps trying to drag you off of it?”

“Is that what you think?”

“ _Yeah_ , that’s what I think!” Frank bellowed, the sound hitting Matt like a physical slap.

“Well that’s _not how it is_!” Matt roared back, rearing forward to get properly in Frank’s face. “You’re not dragging me down – you’re keeping me centered. You let me know _where that edge is_ , where….where I should never go. Otherwise, if not for you…I might just wander off of it someday. I _will_.

“That’s why…that’s why I really _need_ you to come back safe.” The unspoken ‘to me’ hung in the air between them like smoke, blown away in a moment when Frank finally released his hold on Matt’s shirtfront and took a step back.

He didn’t say another word as he turned, slowly gathering his gear back up and studiously avoiding looking at Matt.

Matt didn’t dare say anything else, already mostly convinced that despite their many previous knock-down-drag-out fights, this was the moment where he’d finally and truly imploded whatever strange and miraculous thing they’d built between them.

But then Frank paused, already halfway out the door, and murmured something in a tone far too low for any ordinary person – anyone who wasn’t Matt – to hear.

“See ya around, Red.”

~~~~~

Matt _didn’t_ see him around, obviously, but he didn’t hear him or smell him or taste him or feel him around either.

But Matt also didn’t hear about Frank Castle’s body being found in the smoking wreck of a building where the police had found the burnt, bullet-ridden corpses of almost three dozen Kitchen Irish, Mexican Cartel, and Dogs of Hell. Of course, given the extreme fire damage to the bodies, Frank could well be among the dead and no one would know, but Matt had taken a metaphorical look around the crime scene himself, and he didn’t think anyone outside of the gangs had gone up in the conflagration…well, he was pretty sure, anyway.

The night of Hell’s Kitchen’s newest massacre, Matt had spent several long (too long, it turned out) minutes arguing with himself over whether he should follow Frank. Once he’d stopped equivocating and decided to _just do something_ , he was in his Daredevil suit in record time and dashing up to the roof to try and catch the trail of Frank’s scent. He caught it and followed it down, through filthy alleys and along trash-strewn streets, up and over roofs that stunk of tar and bird shit, almost losing the trail over and over but always finding it again. But the air was already thick with smoke when he was still blocks away from his destination, and the anguished screams of the burning men had faded by the time he’d actually arrived.

So, Matt went home and waited. Even if – even _though_ Frank wasn’t dead, that didn’t mean he was actually gonna show up at Matt’s apartment and give him some peace of mind with his solid, tangible presence. But some small (stupid, hopeful) part of Matt did hope that he’d at least show up nearby, so Matt could hear Frank’s heartbeat with his own ears, and quell that last, stabbing point of doubt in his mind about the likelihood that Frank Castle had gone up against a veritable army of well-armed and extremely pissed-off men and come out of it alive.

The media, which had only recently been alerted to the fact that Frank Castle’s death had been rather exaggerated, was once again tentatively suggesting that the Punisher had met his end, for real this time, in another fiery inferno. But Frank had been dead before, and it hadn’t stuck then, so Matt wasn’t too concerned now. At least, that’s what he told himself, and he had virtually perfected the art of self-deception.

Four nights after Frank left, there was some gunfire in a hot zone of gang activity, reported on the police scanner as a possible Punisher hit, but the evidence was inconclusive – for the cops, at least. Matt recognized the pattern of the bullet sprays, the familiar smoothness of the military-grade shells wedged in the concrete walls of the bodega that the three deceased gang members had been trying to rob. And of course, there was the key fact that while all three victims had been shredded with bullets, the bodega owner had been completely unharmed, despite being mere feet away from his assailants. That kind of precision was a signature all on its own.

But if Frank was alive and well, then he was apparently too busy blowing away creeps on the other side of town and not talking to Matt, so Matt told himself firmly that he, too, had no time to seek out his not-really-boyfriend-partner-co-vigilante-fuck-buddy. And if he broke out the heated blanket he usually only used in the dead of winter and snuggled it a little fiercely, well, that just meant his apartment was draftier than usual, nothing more.

A few days after the bodega incident, Matt was actually sleeping soundly for once. He’d been out even longer than usual that night, searching for something, _anything_ , to punch, and had only gone home when he’d resigned himself to the fact that it wasn’t really a fight that he was looking for. Or at least, not a fight with a mugger or a carjacker. And since he hadn’t heard the unique click of a familiar hammer being cocked, nor picked up any police chatter about another Punisher sighting, he’d dragged himself back home, tearing off his suit and face-planting into bed and the welcome embrace of a dreamless sleep.

The slam of a door shocked him back into consciousness; the following melody of thumping footsteps had him bolting upright, his hands clenched into fists. But it only took a moment longer for his senses to piece together the information they were receiving, and his hands relaxed, falling to his sides.

“Frank,” he breathed, too disoriented to keep his voice from sounding so obviously relieved.

“Hey, Red,” Frank croaked out a reply as he kicked off his boots, followed by the clatter of guns hitting the floor, and then the muted thump of his jacket; a trail of noise across the room as he made his way towards where Matt was sitting in bed.

Matt thought about making a comment along the lines of, say, “you pull a stunt like that, almost get yourself killed, then fuck off to god knows where for a week, without even letting me know if you’re fucking _alive_ , and then think you can just crawl back into my bed like nothing’s happened? You’re out of your goddamn fucking _mind_.”

But the ultimate truth was that, yes, Frank was perfectly welcome to crawl right the fuck back into Matt’s bed, in fact, if he could hurry up about it, it would be much appreciated.

When he got within reach, Matt stretched out to haul Frank, blood and grime and sweat and all, bodily onto the mattress, enjoying the sensation of firm muscle and real – blessedly real and whole – flesh under his hands.

Frank made a soft sort of pleased noise when Matt pressed his lips to his, and that was the first sign of something being off, being…different. Matt let the uncharacteristically tender kiss linger, swallowing up dozens of questions and a solid handful of complaints as Frank’s hands slid up and down Matt’s bare back, and Matt enjoyed getting reacquainted with Frank’s body.

Frank finally broke the kiss, wrapping an arm around Matt’s waist and tipping him back against the mattress, peeling off his shirt and tossing it the floor before leaning down to settle himself between Matt’s legs.

And it felt so good for Frank to be back, to be _here_ , but Matt still couldn’t shake the prickling feeling that there was something going on that he wasn’t aware of, because even though they’d fucked a dozen different ways in a dozen different places, this time was _different_.

Part of that difference dawned on Matt when Frank finally started to press inside him, because he realized that Frank was being ... _gentle_. And now that Matt had realized it, it was distinctly more alarming than Frank at his most violent. Frank Castle did not _do_ gentle. It wasn’t in his range of acceptable actions or emotions. So why the hell was he adding it to his repertoire now?

"C’mon Frank,” Matt finally broke the silence that had reigned between them as they’d kissed and touched and _felt_. “Hurry it up, you know I can take it."

But instead of turning rough, Frank slowed down even further, almost stopping. "I don't…” his voice sounded as close to wrecked as Matt had ever heard it, and it was terrifying and heart-breaking and also a bizarre sort of relief, because Matt hadn’t been sure there was enough humanity left inside Frank to sound like that. “I just don’t want to hurt anyone else tonight."

Matt could feel a deeper truth to that statement, something that went beyond tonight and beyond the two of them, but he didn’t think he could put it in words, certainly not words that did it any justice.

All he had was his hands in the darkness that the two of them lived in, so he let his fingers slide free over expanses of smooth and scarred skin and sank into the novel sensation of familiar calloused hands taking him apart with a sinful delicacy, and Frank pressed his face into Matt’s neck and didn’t bite at his vulnerable pulse, and when it was over he didn’t retreat to his own side of the bed but just laid there with his limbs tangled with Matt’s, catching his breath until their chests rose and fell in harmony.

Matt savored every breath, feeling more relaxed than he had in a week, taking immeasurable comfort in the familiar relentless tap of Frank's trigger finger against his hip.

This time, Frank broke the silence, his voice just a murmur next to Matt’s ear, "God, Red, the way you look now..." His hand stroked up Matt’s side where he was laid out on the sheets, one arm thrown lazily over his head, his legs spread comfortably on either side of Frank.

He didn’t finish his sentence, he just shook his head, and Matt got the feeling that Frank had lost the words he was looking for a long time ago.

Feeling a playful mood starting to sneak up on him in his post-coital bliss, Matt let a small smile twitch at the corner of his lips as he reached a hand up to wander across Frank's features, cataloging them haphazardly before pronouncing, "Well…you _feel_ pretty good-looking..."

Frank barked a laugh and shoved his hand away, but Matt continued unperturbed, "you've got all the pieces of your face in mostly the right places, anyway..."

" _Mostly_ the right places?"

"Well, I'm pretty sure your nose is a little off center; that'll happen when it's broken twelve times."

“You fucker…” Frank rolled back on top of Matt, trying to pin him down but failing as Matt slipped out of his hold, pointing out in a matter-of-fact tone, “If you remember, I think that you are, technically, the fucker in this situation…”

Frank’s already tenuous hold on Matt was lost as he snorted with laughter, and Matt took the opportunity to flip them neatly over before they both dissolved into something that was an awful lot like giggles.

Matt tried to use his newfound leverage to press a kiss to Frank’s lips but he just couldn’t stop laughing long enough to actually do it, eventually settling for pressing their foreheads together.

“Jesus,” Frank sighed, his tone still more serene that Matt had ever heard before, but now with a note of wistfulness, “I don’t remember the last time I laughed that much.”

"Yeah, I thought you were supposed to be dead inside," Matt agreed, a damper settling over his levity as he realized that his words were only half joking.

"I am,” Frank agreed. “But I'm also just...tired."

"Aw, am I making you sleepy, Frank?" Matt grinned, hoping to regain at least a moment of their easy happiness from before.

"Hell yeah, have you _heard_ one of your morality speeches? Quickest way to catching zzzs. But..."

Frank trailed off and Matt reached out to press a hand to his cheek, Frank’s stubble a familiar burn against his palm when he sighed and leaned into the touch.

"Maybe I just…need to rest." His gruff voice was just a whisper against Matt’s skin as his eyes fluttered shut with a soft brush of lashes.

Matt went still above him for a moment, uncertain. But then something _clicked_ , and without further ado he settled himself more comfortably against Frank’s chest, taking care not to weigh him down but to hold him close. He twined their fingers together as he tilted his head to better hear Frank’s heart, the steady beat centering him amidst the turmoil that was still, that was _always,_ roaring away outside. And he could still smell the blood and the dirt under Frank’s nails, the stench of death and the city unmistakable under the more recent layer of sex and sweat, his and Matt’s, and he knew they’d still have to have a long, painful conversation in the future, _about_ the future, but they were here, now, and the world was still spinning and their tiny piece of it was warm and whole…

And it was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought! <3


End file.
